Static
by Annej Ennyl
Summary: Beat/Yoyo, Yoyo likes to question, but Beat doesn't seem to mind just rolling with the punches. Rated for language and suggestive themes.


**Disclaimer** - I do not, in any way, own Jet Set Radio Future, Beat or Yoyo! Expect I have the game. That's not the same thing though.

**A/N** - First thing on Randomly inspired to write a Beat/Yoyo from Yoyo's POV. Since there's not a lot of characterization in JSRF like there is in other games and things, I really just let how I thought of these two come out in these. So, this may be a bit off from the norm of what people see them as.

Thanks to the other half of my account, ViValix, for beta and such.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Static

He smells like weed and hard liquor. He always does. I can still smell the reefer he finished an hour ago, even though he's a good ten feet behind me as I mess with the power to the TV.

I tear the duct tape I'm holding with my teeth and wrap the fraying cord with it. Damn TV's always been faulty. Wouldn't expect anything less from a junkyard salvage, but it could at least work. The tape leaves a rancid taste of glue under my lips, and I have to spit on the floor to get it out.

I sit, leaning against the foot of the lone couch. His half-filled bottle of vodka reeks as much as the weed. It had to be over a month old. I'll never know why he drinks that shit. His black clad legs are sprawled carelessly over the edges of the couch, the bottle of vodka slipping precariously from the half limp hand that's resting on his knee. I can't tell if he's asleep, awake, or just plain passed out with the way his head is thrown over the top edge of his seat, his hair nearly blending in with the scarlet hue of the fabric. His mouth is half open, probably where the weed smell is coming from. The scene could only be more perfect if he was drooling.

I turn my attention to the faulty TV. It's still fuzzy and roars angrily at me with loud static. I stand up with a groan of pain , my hand still hurts from where I fell racing him. Not my fault he pushed me out off the rails at Kibogaoka to get a lead on the race… he did say he would never lose to me again, but I didn't think he'd go as far as that. I wrestle with the "bunny ear" antennae for a better signal, and more shocks of pain come from my scraped hand with each yank.

"Rokkaku…pssskhht… cancelled expo after… scrrrrtch…" The TV spouts random words from the news broadcast.

He finally speaks: "Turn that shit off."

"Wanna watch the news, yo…" I start, turning back towards him. He's looking back at me, head upright and gloved fingers screwing the cap of his vodka bottle back on. At least, it looks like he's looking back at me.

"Nothing but government crap on the news, kid." He grumbles lowly, setting the bottle down on the floor near his skates. "Just trying to pump all that crap into the masses so they'll follow them." He pushes his white lined, blue goggles up the bridge of his nose, like he always does when he thinks he's right. "Don't watch that horseshit while I'm around."

"Can't tell me what to do, mate. I'm the one fixin' this damn TV… I can watch what I want. " I say defiantly, and start to turn back towards the bunny ears. I'm stopped by the sight of his familiar smirk and the one eyebrow arched over the rim of his goggles. His 'You're in for it now' look. I could pick it out of a crowd, I knew it so well. I hesitate in my turning to take in his expression. Right now…?

The pink flesh of his tongue appears quietly at the corner of his smirk. Anyone else would think him to be mulling his thoughts over in his head, tongue being bitten in frustration. I know better. My hair bristles on the back of my neck, I know the look he's giving me through those goggles.

"Listen to your elders, kid." He pushes himself off the couch, letting his skates do the work in gliding towards me. My breath catches and traps itself in my throat just as my back hits the TV from the force of his momentum pushing me back. The TV turns back to static and wobbles on the rusty metal stand. I desperately throw my arms back to catch the TV, just barely getting my fingers on the ridge of the screen. I can barely hear the fuzzy reception through the windy noise of his breath blowing over the curve of my ear. The headphones don't help. They're right in front of my eyes, pulsating with a muted beat. My attention turns from the noises to the rough texture of his gloves against the bottom of my jaw. There are rips and tears on the fabric of his fingertips from scraping against asphalt and rocks. The hand moves to the back of my neck in a firm grasp.

He acts more like I'm his play thing. I thought more of him, something that was unthinkable to even think the same about him. His idiot self-thought wisdom. His complete lack of feelings about anything that wasn't spray paint, rudies, or drugs. I must be a stupid fucking fool to even be remotely interested in him.

His tongue presses against the folds of my ear, and I remember why.

We exchanged words once…. both of us drunk or high out of our fucking minds. Probably on that same kind of vodka last month when it was just cracked. Afterwards, I spent the night praising the chipped porcelain god that sat in our bathroom. It smelled the same as his breath does now.

My ear will never stop reeking of that rancid shit he keeps drinking if he kept this action up. The blowing of warm breath in my ear turns into a bite, hard and sharp against cartilage, and his hands drift down my sides and grip harshly at my waist. The TV's constant static finally ends as his pinky hits the power key. It doesn't matter, I couldn't even hear it over the pounding of my heart in my chest.

I could never say no. Not now, not never. That cocky smile I could see vaguely in front of my face always taunted me, just daring me to refuse. Like I said, I never could. Not with that lithe body. Not with those chaste, half-whispered promises. Not with that grin plastered all over his smug face. Not with how my nerves alight with feeling every time he touches me. The TV levels itself back on the stand, leaving my hands free.

I tangle my hands in his too-tight shirt. His hips stick out a little too much for a guy, I think to myself as my fingers pass over them. But his stomach is firm. Everything about him is firm. Never seen a fat street kid in my life. But he… he's more so. His sides are like stone, with tired, aching muscle taunt under his skin. It's beautiful in a harsh, street-ridden kind of way. It's a reason I don't so much mind these… antics.

He calls it 'punishment'. Punishment for when I 'act up'. This always happens when I tell him off, give him lip, correct him. Even happens when I do nothing. I've stopped trying to figure it out. It's easier to just let him think he was torturing me.

He calls it 'punishment', but we both know there's no torture in the noises I make as his mouth finds mine. The only torture is feeling my hoodie pass over the broken skin after the fray is done. Last time, I had to say a stray cat got me in my sleep and tore my back up. The others actually believed it, while he just resisted a knowing smile and chewed on the end of his blunt.

He tears his gloves off with his teeth, another reason why they carry those scars. He spits them out onto the floor of the Garage, and I'm suddenly happy no one else is around. With the same unceremonious grace, he gathers the loose fabric around my neck and drags me away from the 'living' area. It's all I can do not to curse as my hand hits against obstacles he pulls me through.

My head cracks against the wall the bed is set against, and I wonder if this was the punishment he promised. I feel the blood ooze down the back of my head and I hiss quiet swears at the pain as I fall against the pillow. He's quick and deft, my skates are tugged off my feet, and his headphones wail as they bounce around frequencies and fall next to my bleeding head. The sheets would have to be washed twice. He draws his shirt over his head, and the tilt of his face towards me expects me to do the same. I stumble with the thick fabric, watching him stretch his arms. Like he's preparing for a race.

I can't remember how many times I've had to tell him sex isn't a race. You'd think he'd know that. He's older than me. More experienced. Or as he'd put it, 'wiser'. He hates hearing my advice on sex. More often than not, a bruise would blossom over my shoulder for my 'rude' comment.

The hoodie finally comes over my head, and I put it to the side with a snap of my wrist. The world is half-tinted, half too bright. He hooks his fingers around the nosepiece of my glasses and takes them off, throwing them next to his headphones. He's partway kneeling on my legs. I can't tell for sure, all I see is his skin lit by the fogged and cracked window. I sit up and brace my hands against his back, forcing his still smirking face against mine.

He's not a good kisser when he's been drinking. His tongue is too eager, teeth too clumsy against my own, and the taste of vodka settles on the top of my palate. My back presses further into the frail bed until he grabs hold of my hands and pushes them on either side of my head. I flinch head knocking into his with a loud curse from both of us, and cough as I feel the healing skin on my hand tear apart with the abuse. I stop wincing long enough to feel his grip loosen against the injured skin. His mouth is drawn down in an apologetic twitch, but not before his head turns down to coddle at my neck in a forced sort of console. Like I'm something more than a play toy. A glancing thought at most.

He draws a trail with his tongue from the hollow of my neck to the rim of my collarbone, and the thoughts disappear as soon as they came. My fingertips tingle with anticipation. It's too late now. I manage a weak laugh as I reach to pull up at his chin and he resists with a grumble. I knee him in the thigh hard enough to get his attention. Next time, it wouldn't be his thigh. He well knew this after walking with a limp for a few days last time. I knee him again, harder this time and in his inner thigh. He only growls at me and lifts his chin high enough for me to do what I want to do. It's a small victory, getting those goggles off his face.

His eyes are tired and bloodshot as he frowns at me. But they're blue. So blue. Not even light blue, but a pure crayon shade blue without the wax stains, even through the red lines. I trace the ridge of his brow with a thumb, and he stops sneering. Maybe he's really not drunk and high. Not as much as he seems to be. His breath smells less now and his eyes flick uncertainly from my face to the headphones that are still pulsating with bass 'thumps'. He's uncomfortable with the silence, the lull in action.

The song's lyrics are vaguely familiar.

The headphones always know what song to play. But we already tried on the floor, and both ended up with splinters better left unexplained to the other rudies. He manages a smile, not a smirk, at the headphones. I guess he remembers too. His thumb travels up my arm and meets my own at his brow. His lips touch the inside of my wrist, and it's hard to stop my grin. Probably the most sentimental thing he's done yet.

I think I'm the only one who gets to see his more sensitive side. He's always rougher and cruder when out with the gang. I know it sounds like I'm a poet who scribbles romantic hogwash on a scrap of paper, but I think he really only settles down enough for these quiet moments. Maybe I oughta start trading poems on this boy for food instead of stealing it.

I really do wonder if I'm more than a kid to him. The streets know I love him as much as I fuck him. Never known whether or not he feels the same. He's hard to read with the goggles on. But without them, he seems almost upset I can see the reactions he can't hide in his eyes. They're slightly narrowed, and put out by my grin. He mutters something at me before taking my hand from his face and throwing it back onto my chest. I can tell, he hates the lull in action. I love that about him.

I open my mouth to say something, anything. His mouth cinches around mine before I can start. His body crushes on mine, knees on either side of my legs and shoulders pressing against mine as he forces my head deeper into the hard springs of the bed. His mouth parts from mine, and I try again to speak. He won't let me, his teeth catch my tongue before I can even start. I try to grumble at him, but it only comes out as a needy whine. He huffs at me and releases my tongue. His eyes are bored and expecting, telling me to get it over with.

I want to tell him I don't do this just for the fun. I want to ask him if he meant what he said when we were drunk. I want to tell him I did. It doesn't come out, only a slowly exhaled breath does. I try again.

"Beat." He reacts, propping his chin on a fist, hovering above my head. Without the goggles and headphones, his scarlet hair falls relentlessly over his thin features.

"Hm." He grunts in careless fashion.

"I…" I draw my breath in between my teeth with a slight sucking noise. I can't say it. I love him even though he drinks that month-old garbage. Even though he thinks he's so high and mighty. Even though he's broken more bones of mine than I can count. Even though the back of my head is staining his bed sheets with thick blood. He'll call me a sissy. For saying it, and for complaining about his 'punishment'. He smiles and laughs, head bowed down in mirth.

"Don't get all sentimental on me, kid." He shrugs the comment off. I laugh humorlessly to myself. Figures. "You don't have to say it." I don't expect the last part. I can barely even hear it enough to be shocked by it.

"Whaddeya mean I don't have to say it?" A bubble of hope grows in my chest as his eyes seem to smirk down at me. His fingertips trail over my jaw lazily as he seems to consider his words.

"All I'm saying is…" He kisses me again, sloppily still with his teeth bumping against mine. "I don't do this with everyone, ya know." He didn't want to say it either. But his hand reaches to my belt and yanks it away. Even then, the shock of the words have more effect on me than the white hot heat of his flushed cheek against my collar bone. Not as much effect as the warm cheek moves down to where my belt once was.

The bubble expands, and I feel like I'm floating in more ways than one under the intense heat of his fingers. It was a fuzzy answer, not particularly seeming to lean one way or the other, but I could live better with static then a black screen.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Reviews are lovely, I'm looking to improve my writing in anyway possible.


End file.
